Random Thought of the Day

Things get better when you least expect it and you've already stopped caring and trying.

"If you get invited to your first orgy, don't just show up nude. That's a common mistake. You have to let nudity 'happen.'"
Jack Handey

All, Nothing, and Shades of Gray

I gasped for air and inhaled a deep dark corner of the ocean. One second I was bouncing, buoyant, as if I was on the moon and without gravity, and the next I was impaled by the sharp rush of water like my life had been hooked and was being reeled in, towards Davey Jones Locker, perhaps, but away from my body. One second - neon and technicolor. The next - a heavy black that sat on me, crushing my heart - heavier than the weight of an endearing man laying across my body, heavier than the stress and burdens of work, heavier than hearing the news of someone I love dying, heavier than all of it put together because the life dying was my own. I collapsed. And I sank even deeper within myself, incommunicado.

Screaming, I woke up.

I am not surprised in the least that I am dreaming of the fragility of deep sea diving. It is one of my favorite symbols in movies, like in the Graduate and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly: trapped, isolated with thoughts, under the weight of the world and unbearable expectations, it's an image I've innately understood since I left my parents' house at 18. The only irony is that I've been waking up screaming my whole life.

My reality, made up of Hollywood symbolism, is literally overwhelming. And the other idioms that fit the bill... keep 'em coming:

• Hang in there
• Hanging by a thread
• Keep your head above water
• The light at the end of the tunnel
• Don't burst my bubble
• Between the devil and the deep blue sea
• Still waters run deep
• Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink
• With bated breath
• It's all or nothing
  

As a deep sea diver, you are hanging by a thread... or a thin tube pumped and pressed with a limited amount of life-giving, life-taking oxygen. Underwater, down down down below the surface of things, you can find an entirely new world of beautiful, energetic, and colorful life forms that, too, appear fragile like they're hanging on the ledge of existence and possibly completely unreal all together. You can see all this because you're bating breath from a tiny rubber hose. But if it's cut, and if that bubble bursts, well then... water, water everywhere, and you're drinking every deadly drop. From all to nothing.

J'ai vingt-cinq ans. Pas beaucoup. C'est tot pour aller de tellement a rien.

But the siege of deep water happens more often than I'd like.

There are times, like this, that I stop and wonder if I have a seriously dysfunctional personality. Perhaps I'm borderline. Perhaps I'm rigid and chronically depressed. (But don't use this series of blog entries as a judge of this character.) Or maybe saying I'm seriously flawed is just another way to illustrate my dramatic, overly emotional perception of the norm. Now that that's said, the truth is kind of obvious, but still, I'm facing a problem, whether it's completely within me, completely in the cards I've been dealt, or a little of each...

left or right, right or wrong, black or white, high or low, good or bad, single or in love, popular or alone, starving or full, bored or overwhelmed, clean and spotless or dirty and dishevelled, with you or without you, it's always everything or nothing.

A close friend hasn't spoken to me in weeks and I believe it's with grave intention, and it's solely my own problem. She stopped speaking to me when I hung up on her. Take that as you will, but I was hurt, and it wasn't the first time feeling that way with her. Hurt me once, shame on you; but hurt me twice and you know the rest. I can't help but initiate my fight or flight response. I'm eager to survive after all, there's only that thin hose of life to suck on and it's hard to fight for everything under the circumstances. Then again, choosing flight is a double edged sword when you're already under water. I just sink some more.

Online dating has certainly not helped my condition. It's a cyber sea of faces and profiles and the only way to swim through it all is to be harsh, judgemental, and quick witted. Click a pic and it's a simple yes or no. Any man who's caught in that gray fuzzy area of attraction would have to blow my mind in the first two sentences of his puzzled together persona, but even then, I'll always know he was just a 'maybe.' I agree this approach to romance is obscene and unfair. I couldn't dare pretend otherwise. When it works, though, boy it works - I won't have to buy groceries for weeks because all my meals are eaten out on the town. When it doesn't work, it fails me miserably - it's $30 wasted on ugly pictures, and I know... I just know... they're all thinking the same of me. And even if it wasn't about the money or the fact I've resigned to dating internet profiles, it's still a game of picking the petals off flowers: He loves me; he loves me not. The gray area is faint and looks more like unfortunate white nothingness than vibrant, red hot love. Doom and gloom.

I am twenty five. Not old. It's too early to go from so much to nothing.

But I'm under siege. I'm trying to survive under an ocean of self-induced pressure. Gotta be somebody, and I mean, I've really got to BE somebody. I don't exactly know why, but I could blame my upbringing. I could blame society for deciding nonprofit work was not as significant or valuable as "engineer," "doctor," or "oceanographer." It's either all that, or it's just me. It's me thinking like a beatnik, trying to make a story of my life, trying to figure out all the answers to life on my own before due time. I decided to write a memoir at 22. All or nothing makes for epic tales, unless you get more nothing than everything, and that's how things seem to be. For now.

I don't want to sink in this life, and I don't always want to escape situations in this world I've just begun to create for myself. Rather than let the pressure of being a 20 something burst my bubble, I vow to keep my head above water... when I can... and I vow to add idioms ad nauseam. I vow, like the graduate, to just float along for a while and see how it goes. I'm putting on my rose colored glasses and seeing shades of gray. I still don't know what the deal is with my friend or dating or even my career, but I can take comfort in knowing that gray is my favorite color, and with it, I'm breathing easy.

Life is a bowl of cherries

I finished a book this afternoon - What Is The What - while listening to old man music like Bob Dylan and Tom Waits. I sound like such an old woman.

I cried reading the last few chapters, which really didn't surprise me because I've found many things recently to have such emotional hold over me that I shyly release myself in the determined and full-hearted moment. I became misty watching Sex in the City last night. I teared up watching Jon and Kate + Eight this morning. And this afternoon I turned into a small, flowing creek for Valentino Achak Deng and his words produced by dear Dave Eggers. Turning the final page and soaking in the final few words, an even greater sadness took hold of me. To be honest, this too did not really surprise me, as finishing a book is always a little depressing - you find yourself so deep within it, so engrossed, so consumed by the mold of the characters and the binding of the pages that you can easily forget there is life outside the story that you have to go back to eventually. In my old woman state and ridiculous sensitivity, I did not really want to get back to anything of my own.

After a big sigh, I grabbed a bowl of cherries and my laptop. I turned up the volume for Bobby D., then I thumbed to the doggy eared pages I had so recently read and typed up my favorite lines... the Whats of What Is The What.

But we're no longer rain, I said, we're no longer seeds. We're men. Now we can stand and decide. This is our first chance to chose our own unknown. I'm so proud of everything we've done, my brothers, and if we're fortunate enough to fly and land in a new place, we must continue. As impossible as it sounds, we must keep walking. And yes, there has been suffering, but now there will be grace. There has been pain but now there will be serenity. No one has been tried as we have been tried, and now this is our reward, whether it be heaven or something less than that.

This journey was an act of reckless faith.

In my own reality, it's Memorial Day, a day where folks across the city and country are given a day off to remember we are a nation still in war before they kick up their heels and barbecue in the park with friends.

In my own reality, I am curled up in white linen and staring out my window towards the park, wishing again and again I had more friends to embrace and parade with on this blank canvas of a Monday. I'm left clutching at my comforter, in all its irony, wanting to strangle it until somehow the people I desire draw closer and the ones I detest slink away. I wonder if this approach has ever worked for anyone... do I even have a chance?

This is part of my journey of reckless faith; this is my chapter of absenteeism, hugged by empty pages. This is something I've got to march through like a little Lost Girl, which is exactly what I am, even though I'm simultaneously so very very old. After a history of mild tribulation I made it to the promise land, where one goes to get beat up a bit more before heaven. Ah, sweet and succulent Samsara! How good you are to me! -Engulfing me in flames of loneliness until I'm burnt, dead, and ready for the Truth, a real holy land.

I don't want my readers to be confused - I am not putting myself on par with the real Lost Boys and Girls. My life has been nothing but peaches and sunshine compared to Valentino Achak Deng's. Blame my overt emotions and wild empathy to find the deep rooted parallels of our very opposite lives, but it's also like the book said,

Humans are divided between those who can still look through the eyes of youth and those who cannot. Though it causes me frequent pain, I find it very easy to place myself in the shoes of almost any boy and can conjure my own youth with an ease that is troublesome.

The process of being young is indeed troublesome. Like so many, I abandoned the life I once knew with a grand escape route and I planted myself in new dirt. It's true that I am no longer a seed, but it would be entirely inacurate to call myself grown. I may carry the wisdom of my ancestors, and I may have been raised to speak dogmatically and unnecessarily proud, but it is striking how little and raw I can still feel.

Why have so many of my friends sharply turned away from me?
- It's happened 5 times in 2 years, without knowing or just cause.

Why have grown men played childish games with my heart?
- It's happened too many times to count, leaving me with little but stone where my love should be.

Why do people ignore my calls? Why am I a receiver of pain, but never the receiver of an apology? Why is it so hard to maintain and keep a steady happiness here? Why am I a backbone for so many others - a sponge for their struggles - yet still so disposable?

Why is a sense of family so hard to recreate?

Fierce independence is said to be a virtue, but it feels like a million pounds upon my shoulders and shackled to my ankles. I feel like I was born to do more than exist like this and struggle like this and so merely 'hang in there' like this. I feel like I've survived my past for more than this. But where is my reward? Where is my heaven? Or is this the "something less than that"?

It's not that I'm negative or ungrateful. Disregard my previous posts and gripes and tramping word-vomit ventilation. I am blessed. I am extremely privileged. In brief, escaping, collapsible moments of time, I am sometimes overjoyed. Yet still, more often and moreover, I am a little Lost Girl, just typing to keep the sound of my mantra in tact - my march in motion. Perhaps someday...

Until then, I'm going to nessle in white linen. I'm going to scowell out my window from time to time and hope that you will forgive me. I'm going to dive deep into the secrets of my mind where all that wisdom of my ansectors lays, and eventually my reckless faith with reach its reward. If hundreds of little Lost Boys can do it...

then my life is just a bowl of cherries, and I'm onto another book.

A Right To Bear Arms

As my dear friend and 4 year pen pal, Elizabeth, stated in her last letter regarding an author, "She annoyed me a bit with her repetitiveness; I hope you're not offended."

I thus apologize early on then for what you're about to fall victim to. My cyclical and unremitting (and verbose) state of blog can easily be summed up with June 29, 2008's previously dictated emotion. Like Elizabeth, I hope you're not offended, but history does indeed repeat itself until your lesson's learned. So here we go again:

I went rock climbing on Friday evening with some teens dubbed "at risk," and as I drove one family home, a young woman gasped with surprise about how much her hands stung. This comment cued my heroic tales of gymnastics and the persistent pain my gym mates and I endured. I told her of calluses and all that they're good for, and all that they're not, then I cautiously looked at my own hands on the dark evening road, spot lighted by the horizon's full moon. The skin was pealing, once again, on the pads of my joints, and I hummed a quick "hm" at the affinity of my told-again story and my broken record life. I'm ripping again...

Is it every full moon that I'm required to "dust it off, wrap it up, and grow some thicker skin" or is it just by coincidence that my melodic cries repeat themselves in a monthly pattern out of sync with even my hormones?

I think at one point my thick skin got tired of rejuvenating on something else's time line, be it nature's, biology's, or God's. And at that point, when bad things - or even just slightly lame things happened, my callouses just began to strip away, layer by ceaseless layer.

These days of great independence, I feel nothing but naked. I'm still on my own after nearly 3 years in this town. I'm on my 4th apartment, I'm on my 5th job, and in this wee bit of time, if you add it all up, I believe I'm on my 9th life. My thick-skinned armor and pride has apparently been quietly pealing away like so many other things, perhaps in the shower.

In my car, on my phone, on a Monday, I spoke to another dear friend named Allison. I explained that in a multi-hundred mile radius, I don't know anyone who could give me a hug; not just a hug, I guess, because I'm sure I could find someone to uncomfortably put their arms around me, but a powerful bear hug, with deep, thoughtful, consoling intention... THAT I don't know where to find. It occurred to me then that the thing required for strength and endurance, for pride and protection is not thick skin, it's not money, it's not a promotion, it's not my ego, and it's not long runner legs. It's not necessarily a successful relationship, though I don't think having one would hurt. It's not even knowing I have two hand fulls of friends in this town to call homies - which I don't.

A hug is the armor I'm missing the most. It seems like the only thing that will protect me from the dangers of reality, and the only thing that can positively ward off typical to toxic misfortunes. It's my constitution, damn it! I have a right to protection - and all the warmth and safety two arms could possibly provide.

If I have to say it a thousand... a million more times from this moment forward, I will not be ashamed. Be not offended: the truest way to achieve a winning state is exercise one's right to Bear Arms.

Me and All My Friends

Quarter of a century day - and so many amazing things took place!

I woke up with a man in my sheets. We laid there in the dim morning light, rays sifting through blinds in the background like a gentle call to get up and start a beautiful, fantastic birthday day.

We went out for lunch so I could get my first sandwich in 40 days; ever since Lent consumed me, I hadn't eaten bread (forget about tortillas and cereal and pita, those don't count as breads in my book). Great things come to those who wait in dire and urging times. I was titillated with the long last opportunity and company to divulge.

I took my new-found slice of heaven, made of focaccia, to Golden Gate Park and the Botanical Gardens, where we strolled straight to a bench on an off-beaten path next to purple and yellow wild flowers. There is where I bit into the heaven and let the herbs and flavors and juices slowly melt into my taste buds, awakening a part of me that felt rejected and near dead. In bread-coma, we laid down, intertwined on the wooden stoop, oblivious to other passer-bys. When I closed my eyes, I simply imagined that their oowing and awing for the bright, unexpected flower color was really for how adorable we looked together, resting in the uninhibited afternoon sun.

On the way home we stopped at a shop and we bought birthday irises in a shade blue to match my eyes. We took them home and let them open in the north facing light in my window, under the glow of Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. From there we drank mimosas and made a cake, decorating each other's noses with the creamy chocolate frosting. It was fabulous and romantic.

The day was slipping by like silk on skin so to embrace and celebrate with maximum joy, we took our mimosas to the hot tub. The sun had then set and the air had cooled down, leaving the hot air and steam from the jacuzzi jets mixing with the droopy eyed evening sky in a delicate tango that tickled my nose and brought tears to my eyes. There was perhaps no better way to end the day.

Today was my birthday. My 25th anniversary. The silver.

I'm just thankful that in my new wisdom, I have an unstoppable and youthful imagination. Because in my 25th year reality, I woke up with someone in my sheets, but he slept in the dark, frigged living room while I was in my bedroom. He left hungover without breakfast, and I took myself to lunch. I definitely did walk to that park and to that bench, where after crying underneath my aviators from my loneliness and jealousy of happy couples and families celebrating their holiday, I passed out on the bench like a drunken homeless man, shameless and flatulent without a moment's hesitation. I bought myself flowers. I made my own birthday cake. I drank 3 mimosas, consisting of the cheapest champagne Safeway had to offer. I argued with my landlord for use of the hot tub, and used my sadness as a weapon, telling him it's my birthday and I just need a way to relax. It was the truth, and I think the watery, red eyes helped me get my wants.

It's my birthday and other than my landlord and my brand new roommate who just came home, I haven't seen anyone I'd recognize. There were some calls from my immediate family and some posts on facebook - though there were fewer this year than last - but the echoing voices via satellite failed to impress real love on me. I feel like my 25 year old heart is fossilizing under my own eyes. Without any friends and family and romantic interests to brush off the dust around me, I am just growing older and more fragile at a rate faster than time. By 2010 I'll be nothing.

Maybe my silver is a silver lining... I did wake up hungover with a friend around. I did get to eat bread and nap among the flowers, and eat sugar and drink champagne and soak in a glowing hot tub in the San Francisco night sky. That's positive. But there may be no better time than now to quote my favorite movie and book and adventurer, Christopher McCandless, aka Alexander Super-tramp (Into the Wild) - -

Happiness is only real when shared.

I feel that. Me and ALL my friends, we feel that today.

What I won't be missin'

the smell lingers.

S For Vendetta

S is for Sara, which I've decided is Synonymous with bull Shit. I've known dozens of Sara's, Some with meaningless H's attached, and only a minuscule percentage of these women-like creatures have been worthy of my respect. Sara Ashcraft. She's a good one. I don't talk to her anymore... but Still, that's one out of many I don't hate, So it's worth mentioning. The most recent Saras of my life are ugly and dirty and most definitely confused with another 4 letter word with the Same beginning.

S is for Sex in the City, which blocks out the endless pollution of "I'll Be There For You" from the full Friends DVD series, which Bull Shit watches on repeat and nothing else. It Started 4 months ago and I thought it'd be harmless, but as the Song goes, "no one told you life was going to be this way..." So thank GOD Sex in the City trumps Shit.

S is for Sixteen and Slamming doors. S is for Stupid passive aggressive and caddy behavior. All three of these Special words, in combination with a lame roommate, prove me witness to the most callow and Senseless Situation I hath ever Seen. I am one quarter of a century old, which is too old to revert to the Social mistakes once made in high School. I passed drama then, but I'll Skip it now if that's all the Same to you. Besides, my home is not my job.

S, perhaps most of all, is for Survival. And maybe for good Stories, too. Either way, I am happy to end this chapter like So. In fact, I recently found myself Sifting through old notes, Scraps, and private memorabilia when I rediscovered a 7-up ad that promoted "Change it up!" The ad is colorful and happy and Sums me rather Simply, yet true, So it Stuck to me. I've collected a number of ridiculous tales in my 2-point-Something years of life in SF; and Surprisingly my heart is Still beating and I am Still Smiling, and the insanity of everyone else will continue to Slip off me like oil on water. I'm not a Sadist. This bull Shit and Sex in the City trumping Star-crossed Situation is just one more battle Scar - my medallion of warfare. And from here on out, I am Sure to be Super, Splendid, and fucking fantastic. You can bet your S on it.